


so let's take a ride and see what's mine

by samarskite



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas Eve, Fluff, Hitchhiking, M/M, On The Road fic, Sexual Tension, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-23 01:39:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13179645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samarskite/pseuds/samarskite
Summary: In which Enjolras loves Christmas and he's driving home for the holidays; Grantaire is not a Christamas lover and he has no destination in mind.





	so let's take a ride and see what's mine

 

 

 

“No, mom. I don’t know what to do, mom. I think it’s the tank”. Enjolras pauses, as he keeps walking. His attitude towards unexpected life events is usually pretty positive and optimistic, but now he’s really starting to despair. A female voice is shouting instructions from his phone.

“No, mom, I can’t do that”, Enjolras says, rolling his eyes at nobody, because he’s in the middle of nowhere and he’s walking on the edge of a road with a torch. A car passes by. He doesn’t even try to ask for help, he knows they won’t stop. “What do you mean _why_? I’m not Jesus Christ, I can’t turn water into petrol”, he groans. “Listen, I’m looking for a gas station. Maybe I’ll find someone there who can help me, alright? I’ll let you know”.

Enjolras’ mother says something that makes him smile, then the call ends. He puts his phone in his pocket and keeps walking.

He’s sure he saw a gas station somewhere, a few minutes before his car decided to call it quits and stop going all of a sudden. He didn't swear, he decided to call for assistance, but of course no one answered the phone, and that's when he gave up and swore. Enjolras has never felt so betrayed in his entire life, and has lived several moments of panic before remembering about the gas station. So he locked the car, made a motivational speech for himself and started walking on the edge of the road, towards the unknown.

The treacherous echo of his father telling him to take the train has been haunting him ever since.

The thing is, so much has changed since the last time he saw his parents. He got promoted, he has found a nice flat, he got himself a decent car, Courfeyrac got married, Combeferre got laid, he read a lot of new books, he learnt how to iron, he found out that his washing machine has an actual dryer and, overall, his life has significantly improved.

As bad as it may sound, Enjolras thought that he had every right to boast. Show off a bit. _Hey mom, hey dad! How are you? Don’t mind my new, shiny car. Could you help me with my suitcases full of perfectly ironed clothes? I didn’t even have to wait for ages to do that, I dried them in my washing machine._

Yes, the train wouldn’t have taken anything away from the suitcases and the clothes, but there would have been no shiny car, which, to be honest, is the main attraction of the _Enjolras’ New Life_ Show, so fuck the train.

That being said, the shiny car is useless if you don’t put enough fuel in it, and that’s a not-so-tiny spot in Enjolras’ _How to Adult_ Manual.

Anyway, finally, the lights of a gas station appear on the horizon, and Enjolras feels like a lost soul spotting an oasis in the middle of the desert. He checks his wristwatch; it’s six in the afternoon, 23th day of December. He can still make it in time for Christmas Eve. If his car doesn’t freeze in the meantime, because it’s cold as fucking Antartica.

Enjolras stops walking, a few metres away from the gas station, as he realises he’s losing his positive attitude. He swore twice in a few minutes. That can’t be good.

He makes a mental note and goes back to walking.

The gas station is a pool of light in a sea of darkness, as the sun set down an hour ago. It doesn’t have a bar, but it has a mini-market, and there are only two people: a man in his forties, reading the newspaper near the mini-market’s window, and a guy that’s so buried in his scarf and beanie that it’s impossible to establish an age. He looks like he’s scanning the road, waiting for a car to stop by the gas station.

“Sorry”, Enjolras says, approaching the two of them. “Please, I need some help. My car stopped working and I don’t know what to do”.

The man in his forties doesn’t bat an eyelid, but the guy turns his head towards Enjolras. “Are you out of fuel?”, he asks. His voice is muffled from the scarf, but it sounds reasonably young.

Enjolras shrugs: “It was the only thing I could think about, but I filled the tank yesterday”.

“So what, it simply stopped working?”, the guy asks. “Didn’t do any _screeeeek, vrrreeeee, woooosh_ sound?”

Enjolras wants to laugh, but restrains himself and shakes his head no.

“I can give a look at it. But if it’s the battery, I’m afraid you’re going to have to call someone”, the guy says at last. “And if by chance you’re a serial killer, I’m going to come back as a ghost and haunt you for the rest of your life. I’m still young, and too pretty to die”.

Enjolras smiles, proceeds to buy a tank of petrol and then guides the guy towards his car. “I’m Enjolras, by the way”, he says, as they walk on the edge of the road.

The guy gives him a look that Enjolras, because of the darkness and the beanie and the scarf, can’t quite identify. Under the lights of the gas station, the guy’s green eyes had seemed pale, but now they’re looking at Enjolras like a pair of cat’s eyes, and even in the dark they look pretty intense.

“Grantaire”, the guy says at last, and shakes Enjolras’ gloved hand. “Are you headed to New York? If so, you’re almost there”.

Enjolras shakes his head: “No, I’m coming from New York. But I’m going to Montréal, to my family”.

“Why didn’t you take the train?”, Grantaire asks, and it’s a question so sudden, non-judgemental and genuine that doesn’t come off as nosy: that’s the reason why Enjolras feels his ears get warm, and doesn’t even consider the possibility of lying. “It’s stupid, really”, he says instead.

Grantaire’s eyes sparkle with glee. “You don’t look like a stupid guy. I’m sure there’s a valid reason, but if you don’t want to tell me, that’s okay”. ** ~~  
~~**

Enjolras hesitates. “I mean, I’ve got a new car”, he says at last. “I wanted to show to my parents that I’m doing good”. He waits for Grantaire’s laugh as a car passes by, but it doesn’t come.

“It makes sense”, Grantaire considers. “I would boast too if I had my life sorted out”.

Enjolras opens his mouth to say something tactful, but his car appears on the horizon: “There it is”, he says instead.

Grantaire opens his mouth, as if he wanted to comment, but then promptly shuts up.

They get to Enjolras’ car, and he holds the torch as Grantaire lifts the hood and inspects the engine. “Do you have an alarm system?”, he asks, after a while.

Enjolras nods. “So they told me when I bought the car”.

Grantaire chuckles, then unties his scarf and puts it in his jacket’s pocket. Enjolras has the sudden urge to point the torch at him, so he could finally see his face, but that wouldn’t be a very kind thing to do, so he suppresses the urge.

Grantaire tinkers with some wires for a while, muttering things under his breath, bent over the car. Enjolras, right beside him with the torch, can do nothing but observe that Grantaire has a very nice ass. Even in his black jeans, it looks like it’s made of stone. Does he work out? Enjolras should. It’s the next step in his _How To Adult_ Manual.

“Okay, I didn’t fix it”, Grantaire says suddenly, straightening up. “Not forever, at least, it’s temporary. My father used to have the same car and the same problem, the engine overheats the wire that makes the alarm go off and therefore stops the car. You’re going to need someone more professional than me to fix it properly, though”.

Enjolras feels all the tension he wasn’t aware he had slip off his shoulders and breaks into a smile. “Thank you, Grantaire. Seriously”, he says. “Can I pay you? I can pay you. You fixed it”.

Grantaire turns towards Enjolras with a lopsided smile. “Nah, I only deactivated the alarm for now. It was nothing and it’s not ideal, going around without it, so... don’t worry. ‘Twas a pleasure”, he says.

With the torch still switched on hanging from him wrist, Enjolras can now vaguely see Grantaire’s face: they’re about the same age, but Grantaire looks more tired, sports the beginning of a beard and, if Enjolras is not mistaken, has tiny freckles on his cheeks. The green in his eyes is definitely not as pale as the gas station’s light made it seem, and the nose is slightly crooked.

The result is strangely attractive, in the same way the Mona Lisa’s eyes are strangely magnetic: you can’t quite pinpoint the reason, but it’s undeniably there.

“What are you going to do now?”, Enjolras decides to ask. “Were you waiting for someone at the gas station?”

Grantaire’s green eyes look slightly sad for a split second; then, he shakes his head. “No. Well, kind of? I’m hitchhiking”, he answers, and suddenly he’s grinning again. Truth be told, maybe Enjolras could’ve deducted that from the enormous backpack on Grantaire’s shoulders, but not everyone in this world is Sherlock Holmes.

“Where are you headed to?”, Enjolras asks then. “Are you headed to New York? If so, you’re almost there”.

Grantaire throws his head back and laughs: “No, I’m coming from New York. But I’m going to Nowhere, to No one”.

Enjolras doesn’t even think about it, and maybe today that’s the second spot in his _How To Adult_ Manual, which doesn’t really advise giving rides to strangers: “I can give you a ride, if you want. In lieu of a payment”.

Grantaire gives him a funny look, but there’s at least a spark of pleasant surprise in it, so Enjolras doesn’t feel uncomfortable. “Why not?”, Grantaire says at last. “I haven’t been in Canada for a long time. Might be fun”.

Enjolras closes the hood of his car and smiles.

 

***

“I’ve got a question”, Grantaire asks after half an hour of driving in silence. Enjolras doesn’t take his eyes off the road, but nods to invite him to speak. “It is potentially intimate, so you can dodge it changing the topic to... I don’t know, global warming”.

Enjolras stays silent, but his curiosity has now been poked, and nods again.

“When you said you wanted to brag with your parents, was it because you love each other and they want you to be happy or because you want to smash on their faces your accomplishments because they never really believed in you?”, Grantaire asks, playing with the strings of his hoodie. He hasn’t taken the beanie off yet, so Enjolras still technically hasn’t seen his hair. He doesn’t know why this should be relevant, but his brain noticed.

Enjolras now understands the premise. “The first one”, he says, though. “I love my parents. I know the sacrifices they made and they know the sacrifices that I made. I want them to be proud”.

Grantaire hums understandingly. “I see”, he says.

“What about you?”, Enjolras ask, genuinely curious and not out of courtesy. “Why are you — well, it sounds indelicate, but why are you hitchhiking during Christmas Eve Eve?”

Grantaire stays silent for many moments, to the point that Enjolras is starting to worry about overstepping, but then ultimately answers: “I, uhm... I don’t really like Christmas? And I hate my family, so...”

Enjolras usually respects other people’s opinions, he really does. Two things, though, are unfathomable to him: Trump supporters and Christmas haters. “You don’t like Christmas? How can you hate Christmas?”, he asks, trying to sound reasonably calm. The guy just told him he doesn’t like his family, so that might be part of the problem, and he can relate, to a certain level.

“I used to like it. When I was a child, I liked all the package — the fairy lights, the Christmas tree, the presents, the lunches and dinners, people wishing you Happy Holidays. Then I got a little older, and the lunches and dinners started to get tense. Then, making the Christmas tree became a burden. Then buying presents became a chore and receiving them became an almost certain disappointment. Inevitably, I got to the fairy lights and people’s wishes, finding them meaningless and also a little hypocritical”, Grantaire explains. It’s clear that he sensed Enjolras’ shock and he’s trying to sugarcoat his vision. “It’s not like I despise the ones who love it, I’m happy they’re happy, but... that’s not really my cup of tea”.

Without the scarf to muffle Grantaire’s voice, Enjolras has started to notice tiny swings in Grantaire’s accent, as if his talking mannerisms were a puzzle of different backgrounds. In the span of one sentence he can sound American, British and French.

“But Christmas is _great_. It’s a time of joy where you can eat whatever you want and celebrate the ones you love, not necessarily the ones from your family, and the songs, and the decorations, and the eggnog and the vacation days and — and —“, Enjolras tries to summarise what makes the season so great for him, but he’s so overwhelmed that he can’t find a logical order. Grantaire chuckles, but not in a mean way. “Enjolras, we don’t know each other very well, but I’m positive that you see it that way because you have a pretty fucking great family”, he says, gently.

Enjolras feels bad, because he knows it’s true and for a split second he finds himself wishing it wasn’t, just so he could prove the point of the potential universality of Christmas joy. “My family is pretty fucking great”, he admits. “But that means that maybe you just haven’t found your pretty fucking great family yet”.

Grantaire makes a funny face and thoughtlessly takes his yellow-mustard beanie off, revealing a cascade of black curls. The discovery makes Enjolras twitch because, despite hating his own, he’s moderately fond of curly hair on other people. “What do you mean?”, Grantaire asks, mildly amused. “You don’t _find_ families”.

“Don’t you?”, Enjolras says, halfway between philosophying and blabbering absolute gibberish. “People make a family of their own with a person they usually meet by chance, and they also make friends mainly by chance. So, in a way, you find your family by chance”.

Grantaire stays silent for a moment, clearly not agreeing with the general concept but apparently won by Enjolras’ reasoning.

“Was Christmas that bad at yours?”, Enjolras asks, his voice coming off softer than intended.

Grantaire looks at him with his stupidly green eyes: “You can’t imagine”, he simply says, and he doesn’t elaborate, so the topic falls.

They sit in silence for another half an hour, until the clock on the car’s dashboard announces it’s 8 PM.

“Have you got an iPod or something?”, Grantaire asks then. “I forgot mine at home”. Enjolras nods and points at the glove compartment in front of Grantaire. _“Please, let there not be condoms in there”_ , is what he thinks. “It must be in there”, is what he says.

As it turns out, there is at least one condom in there, because Enjolras can see its golden corner, but it’s hidden under many road maps and Grantaire doesn’t seem to spot it. If he does, he doesn’t comment on it; he simply takes the iPod and connects it to the car stereo.

“You pick the music”, Enjolras says, as soon as he realises that Grantaire is waiting for instructions.

Grantaire grins and starts to go through Enjolras’ music, humming in appreciation or disgust from time to time. In the end, Iggy Pop’s _The Passenger_ starts playing.

Enjolras tries to suppress a smile: “That is the most cliché —“

“That’s why it’s good. It’s a good song, it’s meant to be played right now”, Grantaire says enthusiastically, his almost-French accent for once prevailing on the other two, as he starts playing an imagery guitar with a confidence that can’t be faked.

“Do you play?”, Enjolras asks.

Grantaire doesn’t stop miming with his fingers as he answers: “Yeah. I used to be a drummer, but then my Middle School band miserably failed”. Iggy Pop starts to sing he is the passenger, and he rides and he rides; Grantaire chuckles: “Now I mostly play guitar, and I’ve got a ukulele in my backpack”.

Iggy Pop keeps singing, and Grantaire softly tags along: “ _He looks through his window, what does he see? He sees the silent hollow sky, he sees the stars come out tonight / he sees the city's ripped backsides, he sees the winding ocean drive / and everything was made for you and me, all of it was made for you and me, cause it just belongs to you and me / so let's take a ride and see what's mine_ ”.

Enjolras can’t bring himself to stop smiling, mainly because Grantaire’s enthusiasm is contagious, but also because he hasn’t met anyone so genuine since Courfeyrac. Sure, his best friend is Combeferre, and they bonded over books and complaining about injustices, but it’s Courfeyrac the one who burst in Enjolras’ campus’ room at four in the afternoon, the day before an exam, declaring: “You’re in my class. You’re good. Explain” and then, as an afterthought, added: “I’ll pay you in hugs. Thanks?”

Spontaneity disrupts Enjolras’ plans, but he has learnt with time that he likes his plans being disrupted, once in a while. He took everything so seriously when he was a student — the lessons, the world’s problems, the justice, his life, his friends, everything — and he had to learn, with time, that sometimes you have to go off track to actually get something done.

The song suddenly ends; ABBA’s _Waterloo_ starts playing instead. Grantaire turns to look at him with a mixture of admiration and disbelief: “I knew putting it on shuffle was the right choice”, he says, and he sounds so exhilarated that Enjolras almost feels no shame. He takes back everything good he has said about Courfeyrac, though. This is all his fault.

“I can explain”, Enjolras tries to say, but Grantaire shakes his head with hilarity: “There’s no need to explain, you know the lyrics. Come on, I read it in your eyes. I know you know the lyrics”.

There is no point in denying. “I won’t sing them, though”, Enjolras states, with a stiff attitude that’s completely fake and pretentious.

The bridge is ending. He knows this is a lost battle.

“ _Waterloo! I was defeated, you won the war”,_ Grantaire sings, perfectly in tune despite the attempt at dancing sat and with his seatbelt on. _“Waterloo! Promise to love you for ever more_ ”.

Enjolras surrenders. At this point, his dignity is already in shreds. “ _Waterloo, couldn't escape if I wanted to_ ”, he joins Grantaire, who, ironically, looks like a child waiting for his Christmas presents. “ _Waterloo! Knowing my fate is to be with you — oh, oh, oh Waterloo! Finally facing my Waterloo_ ”.

 

***

Enjolras drives for another hour, until his stomach starts growling and his throat starts to hurt slightly for all the singing they’ve done.

They keep going, until they find a gas station that also has a restaurant, and that’s where they stop.

“If I told you that I do ballet, I once took down a bouncer and I am a cat person, which one would you think is wrong?”, Grantaire asks out of the blue, gnawing at a nail and staring pensively at the ceiling. They’re still waiting for a waitress to come and take their orders.

Enjolras diverts his eyes from the menu e stares at him. “Two truths and one lie? Really?”, he asks, trying to sound unimpressed. Deep down the surface, he actually finds the idea quite intriguing, because he wants to know Grantaire better, but he doesn’t want to give it way. “Well, I think the bouncer one, I don’t buy it”, he says, drinking water from a straw, because he’s a kid that way.

Grantaire lets his bitten nail be and stares at Enjolras in disbelief: “Do I really look like a cat person to you? Jesus Christ, I got it all wrong”.

Enjolras snorts and puts his menu down: “You’re telling me you put down a bouncer? Really?”, he asks, once again trying to hide that the mental image makes him twitch. Without his jacket on, Grantaire has revealed much broader shoulders than expected hidden under a grey hoodie and a blue t-shirt, and every time Grantaire moves Enjolras can see his rippling muscles go back and forth. This is not what he wanted. This is not what he planned for his Christmas Eve Eve.

Grantaire opens his mouth, clearly to brag about his experience with the bouncer, but thank God the waitress interrupts them. Grantaire orders chicken wings and french fries, because he’s stupidly fit and he can afford it; Enjolras orders an hamburger his body can’t certainly afford. “Without tomatoes and mayonnaise, though, thanks”.

The waitress, a beautiful black girl that can’t be older than eighteen, smiles at them, nods and heads back to the kitchen, passing by a family with two children wearing elf beanies. Enjolras’ _How To Adult_ Manual might as-well be in flames now, because he wants an elf beanie too.

Grantaire is staring at Enjolras. “ _No tomatoes and mayonnaise, though?_ ”, he asks, clearly torn between curiosity and disapproval. “What, are you now going to fake an orgasm or something?”

Enjolras, still distracted by the beanies, answers without thinking: “With the right kind of help, there’s no need to fake it”.

Grantaire, who was taking a sip of water, chokes on it and starts coughing; Enjolras realises and he can feel his ears start to get red; in between the coughs, Grantaire is blabbering something about someone being borderline underage, and Enjolras realises even further how his sentence could’ve sounded to someone who wasn’t in his brain.

“I wasn’t talking about her!”, he protests, now probably fully red and wanting to get swallowed by the ground. “I was staring at the elf beanies — for God’s sake, I’m gay”, he says, with a beginning of laughter bubbling up in his chest. Then, he also realises that it could sound like he was hitting on Grantaire, and adds: “I was joking — Oh, _my God_ ”.

Grantaire has gone from coughing to full laughing in the span of a few seconds, and now he’s red too, with tears in his eyes. “What the fuck is this conversation?”, he asks with his mixed accent, almost sobbing for all the laughing, and Enjolras can do nothing but laugh too.

They’re still laughing when their meals arrive, and Grantaire is still chuckling even when they move further and start talking about their ex-colleges and their jobs.

Overall, their dinner is good and Grantaire is a pleasant counterpart in the conversation. Listening to his college stories, Enjolras starts to feel like Grantaire sells himself as dumber than he actually is; he got good grades in the subjects he really enjoyed, he makes many cultural references without even realising and he rarely stumbles on his own words.

A fit boy with curly hair and an impressive vocabulary. Enjolras is not going to make it to Montréal.

“You didn’t tell me your two truths and one lie, though”, Grantaire says as they pay the bill and head back to Enjolras’ car.

Enjolras thinks about it. “You’re right”, he says. “I used to be a carols singer, Christmas used to irritate me and I’ve been perfectly ironing my clothes since I was twelve”.

Grantaire barks out a laugh: “No way you used to dislike Christmas”, he says, getting into the car. Enjolras gets into the driver seat and smiles: “Tricked you. That was true. I learnt how to iron my clothes two months ago”.

Grantaire bits down his lower lip; it’s a clear attempt at restraining his hilarity, but it sends tingles down Enjolras’ spine. The last time he was so long gone for someone in such a short amount of time was at a party in Freshmen Year. He didn’t get a date, but he made out with him, so he dares to hope.

“And you used to dislike Christmas and simultaneously ring the bells and sing Christmas carols? Why am I surprised even though I feel like I shouldn’t?”, Grantaire asks. Enjolras starts the engine. It’s half-past ten.

“Well, no. I used to dislike Christmas, when I was very very little, because it’s not like I had a shitty family, I had no family at all. Then, I got adopted by my mom and dad when I was six, and during my first Christmas with them carols singers knocked on our door on Christmas Eve, and I loved it. So my dad, the following Christmas, took me out on the 23th to sing Christmas carols to our neighbours. That’s when I found out that for all that time, I hadn’t hated Christmas, I simply hadn’t celebrated it properly”, Enjolras explains. Only Combeferre and Courfeyrac know this, but this evening can’t get any stranger so, whatever.

Grantaire takes off his beanie and squirms out of his jacket: “I will admit it sounds great. When did you stop singing carols?”

Enjolras shrugs: “Three years ago, when I got a job. My turn ends at four in the afternoon, so I can leave for Montréal roughly at five pm, so we don’t really have time to do that anymore. We could do it on another day, but I prefer waiting for a life-changing promotion that will allow me to leave early. It wouldn’t be tradition otherwise”.

Grantaire hums understandingly. “I wish I was adopted”, he says, after a while. “Every child should be adopted, so they’d have a better chance to get decent parents”.

Enjolras feels mixed emotions about this statement. “I see where you’re coming from, Grantaire, but that’s not true. You have no idea how shitty it was —“

“My mother died when I was seventeen, and my father was an alcoholic. Every Christmas before the funeral was her trying to not piss him off and the Christmas right after the funeral was him drinking and me watching TV. Then I left, but I bet nothing would’ve changed”, Grantaire states, and there’s a new element in his voice. It’s raw and honest, but emotionless. Enjolras hadn’t heard him devoid of any emotion yet. And the worst thing is, Grantaire’s not rummaging for pity, he’s not angry, he’s simply stating the facts.

“Jesus Christ”, it’s all Enjolras can say, and he figures that it’s better to say nothing else. He still stands by the belief that adoption shouldn’t be wished for anybody, but it’s clear that it’s a sore spot for the both of them and they don’t know each other well enough to face it frankly.

“Yeah”, Grantaire simply says, shrugging, and emotion is back, but that emotion is hurt and it’s even worse than before. Enjolras wishes he could pull the car over and give him a hug.

They stay in silence for half an hour; when it’s half past eleven, Enjolras mentally makes two calculations and realises that if he keeps driving without stopping once, he’s arriving in Montréal at two in the morning.

To make the realisation worse, that is the exact moment his body decides it’s time to yawn.

He reluctantly glances at Grantaire, who’s looking outside the window, not sure about where the last conversation left them. “I think”, he says. “We should stop for the night. I am very tired and maybe you could drive, but you look tired too and you don’t really know where to go”.

Grantaire averts his eyes from the darkness outside; for some reason, he looks surprised.

“I can pay for your room too, if you haven’t got enough money with you”, Enjolras adds, trying to not imply anything rude. “You can pay me back whenever you want, and —“

“No, no”, Grantaire says, his voice lower and softer than before. “It’s fine to me. You must be really tired and I’ve got to charge my phone and have a shower”.

“Alright. Could you please text my mom and tell her I’m arriving tomorrow morning?”, Enjolras asks, and waits for Grantaire to do what he’s asked.

Grantaire composes the message and makes Enjolras check it before he sends it, then goes back to looking outside the window, maybe scanning the road for a motel, now.

“I didn’t mean to be rude, before”, he says after a few minutes. “You’re right, I don’t know what it’s like being adopted”.

Enjolras now understands the uncertainty in Grantaire’s voice. And he was the one worrying about having been impolite.

“Don’t worry. I don’t know what it’s like to have a shitty family, so I guess we’re even. I think — oh, there’s a motel”, he says, driving the car in its parking lot.

Grantaire smiles at him as the car stops, apparently reassured.

For some reason, they don’t immediately get out of the car, but stay sat for a few minutes.

Enjolras checks the clock on the dashboard and turns towards Grantaire, grinning. “It’s midnight. Happy Christmas Eve”.

Grantaire grins, too. “You’re not letting it go, are you? You _demand_ that I like Christmas”, he says. He’s tired and worn out, but he gives the vibes of a person who is exactly where they are supposed to be.

“Exactly. Be festive, it’s an order”.

Grantaire looks at him. The motel’s neon lights make the green in his eyes look pale again, but now Enjolras knows their true colour.

“I need a pretty fucking great reason”, Grantaire provocatively answers; his lips are chapped, whether because of the cold hair or because of the nervous biting he tends to do, Enjolras can’t tell. He feels his body tense and slowly tend towards them, though, as if it were stuck in a magnetic field that just won’t let go.

A tiny, panicky part of Enjolras’ brain reminds him that, whilst he came out to Grantaire, Grantaire didn’t come out to him, and could therefore be very much straight; but he then finds out that Grantaire is infinitesimally getting closer, too.

Only now that they’re inches apart Enjolras realises that, despite him trying to suppress it, he has wanted to kiss Grantaire since he has fixed his car. It literally makes no sense, because they don’t know each other, and that’s nonsensical and almost teenage-y; but paraphrasing Shakira, dicks lie even less than hips do, and he can do nothing about it.

Grantaire breathes out faintly, and Enjolras can feel it on his skin.

This is agony.

He parts his lips and prepares to move forward,

when a ringtone cuts the silence like a knife.

Grantaire jumps so high he almost hits his head against the car ceiling, and hurries to answer his phone. Enjolras, frozen in the same position, closes his eyes and wonders how can one keep a positive attitude when shit like this happens.

“Éponine?”, Grantaire asks to the phone, and his voice is shaking. _Good, he got scared_ , Enjolras thinks bitterly. Now he’s going to regret ever thinking about kissing Enjolras. Maybe this girl is even his girlfriend.

“What? No. Why would I give Gavroche the keys to my flat?”, Grantaire asks, his voice progressively less shaky and more confused. “What the fuck does it mean that he’s playing Mariah Carey in my apartment?”.

The girl says something that makes Grantaire’s eyebrows shoot up under his curls. “How am I supposed to know? Ask Montparnasse, not me. No — what the hell? Wait — sorry, Enjolras”, Grantaire says, lifting his index and getting out of the car.

Enjolras stays still for a few moments as Grantaire keeps arguing with the girl on the phone, then sighs and starts gathering the things he’s going to need for the night.

He stills when the thought of taking the condom in the gloves compartment crosses his mind. He stares at the condom, then at Grantaire, then at the condom.

He shoves it in his back pocket.

“Fuck wishful thinking”, he thinks, then gets out of the car.

***

 

The motel predictably sucks, and the receptionist clearly thinks they’re lovers, even though she’s handing them different keys to different rooms.

They go upstairs in silence an awkwardly wish each other good night.

Enjolras goes inside, leaves the bags on the floor and goes to take a shower.

The twisted turn that this day took ( _wow, Enjolras, great alliteration_ ) is so weird that he can’t quite wrap his head around it. He almost thinks that if he closes his eyes, he will be in his childhood room when he re-opens them, and he’ll find out that Grantaire has never existed.

The water, at least, is hot and helps him unwind a little, even though he’s perfectly aware that the shower he’s having should be cold. He still feels Grantaire’s piercing eyes on himself, and the unpleasant but not unwelcome tickling of one of Grantaire’s curls when they were only a breath apart; he thinks about his lips, and the need for contact rushes back.

Enjolras hurriedly gets out of the shower when his phone rings; it’s his mother, who praises him for the decision to stop driving. “Sleep tight and drive safe, Enj”, she tells him before she ends the call, and he feels a little better.

He’s about to get under the not-so-freshly-cleaned covers, when he hears a soft knock on the door.

Enjolras glances around the room, as if an invisible life coach could tell him whether he should open it or not. Curiosity prevails, and of course it’s Grantaire.

He’s still wearing the beanie and the jeans and the hoodie and the jacket, but he’s clearly had a shower and he’s holding a ukulele in his hands.

Enjolras doesn’t understand, but doesn’t say anything.

“I never did this”, Grantaire says nervously, and he holds the ukulele tighter. “So don’t laugh at me if I get it wrong”.

He lowers his eyes from Enjolras to the ukulele, and starts singing: “ _I think I saw ol' Santa through my window Christmas eve / my eyes were really droopy, but I really do believe / it must've been ol' Santa, 'cause I saw his big red hat / and I know my mom and dad can't fly like that, oh no / I know my mom and dad can't fly like that_ ”.

It’s clear that Grantaire already knew the song, but Enjolras suspects he had never played it before: his fingers, despite playing with precision and certainty, change the notes from time to time, probably looking for the one that sounds the best.

“ _I think my daddy sees me peeking from my door / but he pretends he's Santa anyway / Every year he tries to fool me, but I'm a big boy now / I don't believe in Santa or his sleigh — no way_ ”.

Enjolras couldn’t stop smiling even if he tried. He doesn’t even know what to do, he feels thrown all of a sudden in a new, enhanced version of _Love Actually_. And he’s loving every, single minute of it.

Someone from another motel room shouts to shut up, but Grantaire shouts back “Fuck you, I’m trying to be festive”, and goes back to the song.

“ _So I went back to my bed, and I curled up nice and tight / I stared out of my window and I looked into the night / And then, all of a sudden, through my window I could see: Santa Claus was flying by and smiling at me / Santa Claus, Santa Claus / It must've been ol' Santa Claus / Santa Claus, Santa Claus / Happy Ho! Ho! Ho! to you_ ”.

Grantaire finishes the song, then lifts his eyes on Enjolras as if he were scared of what he could find. When he sees that Enjolras is grinning like a madman, he grins too.

“You _like_ Christmas”, Enjolras teases him. “Just a little bit”.

Grantaire clears his throat and averts his eyes from Enjolras, as if embarrassed by his own upcoming words: “I like you a bit more than that little bit”, he says.

Enjolras feels his heart go up and down in his chest like a frog.

He leans closer and kisses him.

It’s hesitant at first, and he distinctly sees Grantaire’s eyes shoot back on him at the speed of light and widen in surprise; but as soon as Grantaire recovers and gets responsive, the kiss deepens and gets more purposeful and focused.

Enjolras puts a hand on Grantaire’s neck and walks backwards, to lead him inside his room and simultaneously avoid breaking the kiss; the door closes, and Grantaire puts down his ukulele on a random surface to free his hands and put them on Enjolras’ hips.

From purposeful and focused, the kiss gets messy.

Enjolras’ fingers slide into Grantaire’s hair, causing the beanie to fall to the ground without noise. He didn’t know a person he basically doesn’t know could do this to him; he had never really understood hook ups in clubs, until now. He doesn’t know Grantaire’s favourite food, his quirks, his sexual orientation (well, he is having a glimpse at that, but the point stands), his favourite music or movie genre or his political views (which, for Enjolras, is a first; he had never kissed someone who could be a potential republican).

As Grantaire shimmies to get out of his jacket and throws it on the ground, Enjolras feels obliged to ask: “Wait, I didn’t ask you. What are your political views?”

Grantaire, who was clearly considering about taking his hoodie off, stops and stares: “That important, huh?”

“That’s what I majored in”, Enjolras answers.

Grantaire clears his throat again. It signals something, and Enjolras would like to get to know him enough to know what it means. “I miss Obama so much sometimes I consider moving to Canada”, Grantaire says at last, dubious. “And Trudeau is hot”.

Enjolras feels a violent rush of blood through his body, and can’t stifle a groan. He urges forward, pulling Grantaire’s hoodie: “Oh my God, take it _off_ ”.

Grantaire kisses him quickly and makes an half laugh as he obeys, content that he gave the right answer.

The warmth that Grantaire’s body radiates is almost intoxicating, and Enjolras goes back to touching him as soon as the hoodie is thrown away. They kiss for a while, even though Enjolras couldn’t exactly tell for how much, until the pace slows down to lazy pecks on the lips. Enjolras delicately grabs a fistful of Grantaire’s curls, and Grantaire exhales loudly in appreciation.

“I have wanted to do that since the first time you took off your beanie”, Enjolras confesses, feeling particularly honest.

Grantaire stares, as he tries to remember when that happened. He realises. “You haven’t”, he says, in disbelief. He looks so alive, with his flushed freckled cheeks and his blown pupils.

Enjolras nods with a tiny smile: “I have.” Then, as an afterthought, he adds: “I’ve also been hard since I almost kissed you in my car”.

Grantaire makes a sound like he’s dying, grabs Enjolras’ arse and they go back to the messy kissing.

The urge feels more palpable, now, though. There’s something new in the nervousness with which Enjolras fumbles with Grantaire’s belt, and Grantaire pulls at Enjolras’ pyjamas.

“Fuck”, Grantaire says when he manages to get Enjolras shirtless.

“Yes”, Enjolras answers, and slides away Grantaire’s belt to throw it on the floor.

“No”, Grantaire says, pulling away slightly. “Well, yes. What I meant was, _Fuck, I don’t have condoms for a fuck because I hadn’t planned on fucking when I left_ ”.

“Well”, Enjolras considers as he kneels down in front of Grantaire and reaches for his own jeans: “My only regret is that I only brought one”, he says, taking the condom out of the pocket and starting to undo Grantaire’s fly.

Grantaire looks at him as if he just witnessed something mystical: “I think I love you”, he says, full of sentiment. “I know it’s early and we don’t know each other very well, but I’m almost positive this is Santa’s present for me and I am in love with you, and —“

Enjolras pulls down his boxers, and Grantaire hisses in pleasure. “Grantaire, shut up”, he orders, as he tears the condom wrapper with his teeth and puts the condom to good use.

“Fuck you, I’m trying to be festive”, Grantaire says, making him stand up and pushing him towards the bed. Enjolras tries to laugh, but a moan escapes his lips instead.

 ***

“I’ve got a question”, Enjolras asks as they’re having breakfast.

Grantaire takes a sip of coffee and looks at him quizzically. Enjolras doesn’t know if it’s his imagination, but both him and Grantaire look renewed this morning, significantly less tired and a lot more relaxed.

“It is potentially intimate, so you can dodge it changing the topic to... I don’t know, global warming”, Enjolras adds, just to make it clear and be funny at the same time. Grantaire smiles and invites him to go on.

“The girl who called you yesterday... who was she?”, Enjolras asks, trying to keep his voice as even as he can. He doesn’t want to be the psychotic jealous hookup in this story, but he’d like to know because it feels important.

Grantaire’s face goes through many kinds of emotion in the span of a few seconds: confusion about who Enjolras is talking about; realisation about who Enjolras is talking about, and confusion about why that’s relevant; realisation about why that’s relevant; full understanding of the misunderstanding; shame; hurt; understanding again.

“Éponine? She’s my best friend”, Grantaire says, widening his eyes. Enjolras sips his tea. “I’m not a cheater. I’m not”, Grantaire assures, putting down his finished mug of coffee. “She lives in the apartment next to mine. Somehow, her brother went to mine without any key and started playing Mariah Carey’s Christmas album. Go figure”.

Enjolras would lie if he said he doesn’t feel relieved. It’s because he’s not a home wrecker, sure; but also, because he’s starting to want to switch numbers with Grantaire and hear from him again.

He nods. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply anything, or judge, I just — well, it crossed my mind”.

Grantaire lies against the back of his chair. His eyes have gotten sad. “It shows how little we know about each other, I guess. That’s fine”.

Enjolras has finished his tea, and now he feels sad, too. “Should we go? I’m done here”.

Grantaire pays for both of them, despite Enjolras trying very hard to hand the cashier his five dollars, and walks with Enjolras back to the car.

They get in the car and, once again, they stay still on their seats for a few moments.

“You don’t have to take me all the way to Montréal, you know”, Grantaire says, looking at the almost empty parking lot. “When I start to become annoying you can dump me anywhere”.

Enjolras stays silent for a moment, unsure about whether the double meaning of the statement is wanted or not.

“I don’t want to dump you”, he says at last. “I’m enjoying my time with you. I want it to last”.

Grantaire turns to look at him with the faintest hint of surprise.

“In fact”, Enjolras adds, feeling inspired. “I’d like to know your feelings about New Year’s Eve”.

Grantaire grins: “Oh, I hate it”, he says. “Totally pointless. The New Year’s going to suck exactly as much as the last one”.

“Well, sir, I beg to differ”, Enjolras says with a fake posh voice that used to be at least partly true, years ago. He turns the car key and starts the engine. “You just haven’t found the pretty fucking great person to kiss under the mistletoe”.

Grantaire chuckles, learns towards him and turns down the car key, killing the engine. “Someone should volunteer, then”.

Enjolras kisses him and tangles his right hand in his curls. Kissing Grantaire is as good as it was last night, so that can only be a good sign.

***

When Enjolras parks in front of his home, he braces himself to go inside and dismissively brag about his brand new car in front of his parents, but suddenly realises that he doesn’t have Grantaire’s number, and he left Grantaire in front of the Biosphere (“You should stay at mine, Grantaire, no one should be left alone on Christmas Eve”. “I really can’t stay”. “But baby, it’s cold outside”. “I’ve got to go away, Enjolras”. “But baby, it’s cold outside”).

His good mood threatens to disappear, when he spots a golden reflection on the car’s floor in front of the passenger’s seat. He leans and takes it. It’s a condom wrapper (which one, he can not tell; he and Grantaire found out that he had another two in the car and shamelessly used them) with “ **Merry Ho!Ho!Ho! to you!** ” written on it with a sharpie; he turns it around, and there’s a phone number on the other side.

Enjolras takes his phone out and sends a text to the number: “ _you like Christmas now, face it_ ”.

The answering text comes at the speed of light.

“ _a bit, but I still like u more_ ”, it reads.

“ _I’m leaving on the 29th at four pm, flatterer_ ”, Enjolras writes.

“ _I’ll b where u left me_ ”.

Enjolras grins, gets out of his car, puts phone and condom wrapper in the pocket of his jacket, and walks inside.

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  I am late to the party, this was supposed to be much shorter, I hate Christmas, I have never been to America, this hasn't been beta-ed and I know nothing about cars.  
> But I'm a sucker for fluff, so, enjoy.  
> Merry Christmas, and happy New Year.  
> Sam


End file.
